


Hark, the Herald Angel Sings

by ScrollingKingfisher



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel True Forms (Supernatural), Body Horror, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, M/M, Ruler of Heaven Gabriel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 15:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19479052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScrollingKingfisher/pseuds/ScrollingKingfisher
Summary: Glory to the Newborn King (of Hell)





	Hark, the Herald Angel Sings

**Author's Note:**

> Despite the title, not a Christmas fic! But the next line was too close to resist ;) 
> 
> Day 5 of sabriel week, obviously, and today the theme is Boy King/Leader of Heaven! Enjoy!

“Enough!” Sam roars. 

The demons all freeze, their eyes snapping to him, as sudden and still as if they’ve been petrified into stone. Later, Sam will look back and realise that he should have known something was wrong right then. That pin-drop creepy silence could never have been an omen of anything good. But at the time, there’s only the rushing of breath in his lungs, the too-hard beat of blood in his ears, and the thin red mist of rage creeping into the corners of his vision.

“Enough! There will be no new King of Hell. Not today. Not ever.” And then he says the words which seal his fate, lets them boom around the room with supernatural resonance.

“And if anyone wants the job, you’ll have to come through me!”

Smoke fills the air, darkness billowing all around him, and Sam looks on with misplaced satisfaction as the room empties out on his command.

And that’s how it begins.

.o0o.

The first thing to emerge is the antlers. 

Initially, they start as tiny velveteen bumps rising from his scalp. Sam prods at them gingerly in the mirror and hopes they go away on their own, even though he knows in his heart they won’t.

He goes to Dean for help when they start pushing up through his hair, explains what’s happening. Dean stays up researching through the night with him, trying to break the curse, convinced that a witch with a grudge has got him.

They don’t find anything. Because it isn’t a curse. 

By the time a week has passed, the antlers have grown so much he can’t leave the bunker, even with a hat on. The prongs grow, divide, split, until after a month they suddenly shed that tender velvety covering and emerge with lethal-sharp prongs. The antlers (because that’s unmistakably what they are) are magnificent- an enormous swept-back rack, encircling his head like a thorny crown. 

The other hunters stare. Sam locks himself in his room with his research books.

It isn’t until they call in Rowena that they start to realise the full extent of what’s happened. When she draws him gently aside and explains with a grimace of regret that the ‘demonic stain’ on his soul has grown.

Sam doesn’t want to believe it, but he does. Dean argues and insists, but Sam just sits there quiet. Because he knows now what that vaguely familiar edge of power he’s been feeling is. He remembers ordering the demons away. He makes the connection.

The king of Hell. He had accidentally claimed the throne. Of all the horrible dumbass things that have happened to him, this one is the cherry on the cake.

He stops hiding in his room after that. There’s no point. It doesn’t take long for the other hunters to start shunning him, and that just gets worse as his other powers start to kick in. The telekinesis is back, as are the visions. He gets even taller than he was; his bones ache like they year when he was seventeen and grew three inches in six months. Soon he has to stoop in doorways so as to not snag the antlers. He tries to hide the claws. But he has a harder time hiding the lengthening canines, and the scales that start creeping down his arms and across his cheekbones. 

The last thing to emerge is the eyes, and it’s the thing Sam hates the most of all. He doesn’t look into the mirror any more. The last thing he needs is to see those yellow irises staring back at him like one of his nightmares. 

Because that’s what he is now; a living nightmare. No wonder they shy away from him, Sam thinks to himself. Sam would do the same. It’s a wonder he hasn’t heard any mutterings of ‘disposing’ of him yet.

Surprisingly, there is one person left in the bunker who seems almost completely unperturbed by the whole thing. 

Gabriel, who’s still bunking in their spare room despite the fact that he’s supposed to be ruling heaven (“playing hookie,” Dean mutters), is the only one willing to come near Sam. Which means that Sam spends an unexpected amount of time with the archangel, holed up at the back of the library, poring endlessly over books to try and find a cure that he knows doesn’t exist, and getting progressively more annoyed by Gabriel’s constant quips.

That’s not to say that Gabriel doesn’t have any opinions on Sam’s new status as the King of Hell; it’s simply that his reaction to the debacle is completely different from the fear, concern and anger that everyone else is heaping on Sam’s plate. He’s not afraid, as Sam had kind of expected him to be, given his last exposure to a Prince of Hell. Oh, no. 

Gabriel thinks the whole thing is utterly  _ hilarious _ .

“Pass that book, would you?” Sam holds his hand out.

“Of course,  _ My Lord _ .” Gabriel passes the book over with a mocking bow so deep he almost hits his head off the table, flourishing his hands like he’s a jester in a medieval court. Sam feels a vein in his forehead start to throb. He closes his eyes, clenches his jaw.

“Gabriel-”

“You called,  _ My Liege?” _

Sam grits his teeth. He holds back a rumbling growl. “I wish you would stop-”

_ “Your Highness?” _

“-calling me-”

“Ooh, how about  _ your Majesty?  _ Or-” Gabriel makes a little yelping sound when Sam dives at him.

...

“I still say you need some sort of crown,” Gabriel tells him afterwards, still dabbing at the cut on his lip where Sam had caught him with an antler while trying to pin him to the library floor. 

Sam scowls at him from where he’s slumped back in his too-small seat, rubbing at a bruise on his arm. They’re pretty equally matched these days, which is the one bright spot in the clown parade that is Sam’s life. “I don’t want a crown. And don’t you dare make me one,” he quickly adds, seeing the mischief brighten Gabriel’s eyes and his fingers primed to snap.

Gabriel drops his hand in disappointment. “Don’t be such a downer, Moose! It’s not that bad. Nobody’s dying. So it’s better than an average day with you mooks, am I right?”

But Sam doesn’t feel like joking around at the minute. All the bad thoughts that have been swirling around his head for the last few weeks rise to the surface in a depressing torrent. “It’s turning me into what I should have been all along. I’m gonna hurt people, I know it. Hell, I’m powerful enough to hurt  _ you  _ now! I’m a monster, Gabriel!”

There’s a charged silence between them for a second. 

Then Gabriel speaks up.

“A monster. What’s a monster, Sam?”

Sam turns towards the archangel, and there’s a strange look in his eyes, intense and serious even though his mouth is still grinning. “Huh?”

“Am I a monster?”

  
  
“What? No. You’re a…” Sam’s voice trails off. The hair on the back of his neck prickles. Gabriel’s still smiling, but as he watches there’s something off about the edges of it, something warped and sharp. Like a badly tuned television. And then something just out of his eyeline  _ stree e e e etches _ out, long and thin and  _ inhuman, _ pointed and emaciated and snaggle-toothed. Limbs jostle for place at the edges of his vision. There’s something creeping up through the floorboards, pushing through the walls, the whole of reality  _ bulging  _ and cracking around them as sơmethi̴n̢g̕ ̛ v͜as̴t s̡̘̪̳t̝̻̪̟ḁ̫̳̱̮̻r̢̻̗e̸s͚̖̙̺ ̗͝ d̪̩̰͈͙͙̤o̢̱̬̗̹͖̣̜w̨͍̟̳͇n̴ ̸̟ w̼͍̜i̬̪̰t̬͢ḩ̻̪̲ a҉̖̗͟ ͎̳͍ t͔̺̗̯̣͠h̩͚̬̪̬ͅo̧̬͖̣̖̫u͙̰͎͕̼͓͈̬s̢͈̯̥̮͜͞a̦͝n̨̗̦̭̯̹̻̰̞d̰̻̯̪̜ ҉̶̛̞͎̲ g̰͙̬̝̝͙̰l͔o͉̱͚w̸̺̠̥̪͉̝͠i̠̟̦̭̪̖͉ṋ̨̫̜̖͢g̴̢͎̘͕̳͔͝,̷̛̹ ̧͔̣̗͢b̥͖̕͞͠u̢͓̖̺̲̥̦͠r͓͙͉n͏̱̞̮͇͘͢ị̮̩̥̠̝̫̳̕͜n̮̖̼͚̟̤̙̭͡g̷̠͓̫̖̞̭̟͡ ͇̳̩̤͇̝͚̘e̴̙̪̻̞̜͔̝͟y̩͉̲̱̭̼̟͝ͅe͍̳̣͘s̢̨͖̦̪̲̗̦̲̕ͅͅ -

Sam winces, turning his face away.

“Am I a monster?” Gabriel asks again, quietly. “Do you think I’m gonna go around killing innocents because I’m not human-neutral? Is that really what you think still?”

Sam doesn’t reply. He bites his lip.

Gabriel sighs, and Sam hears him push up off his chair. “Look, Sam. I’m the last person who’s gonna get into a morality debate with you. But we all gotta work with what we got, and at the end of the day? If fewer people are hurt, if fewer people are dying or making deals with demons and being sent to hell because you’re more powerful now? That’s a point in your favour. Being human doesn’t matter. Your choices define you, not how many sets of very impressive antlers you’ve got, and we’ve both made mistakes in the past but we’re here now, aren’t we? Working on humanity’s side. Together. Only difference between you and me is that I can hide my bits better. ” 

Sam snorts, because there’s nothing human about the number of Reese’s Pieces Gabriel can put away. But despite his scepticism, there’s something reassuring about Gabriel’s presence. About his utter lack of fear of Sam, despite his own issues.

And suddenly Sam’s just immensely grateful that  _ someone’s  _ here, treating this whole situation like it’s not a big deal, like he’s not some monster who’s about to break loose and kill the lot of them. Treating him like a  _ person _ .

Gabriel’s been here this whole time. And looking back, maybe he hadn’t been lurking in the library just to annoy him. Maybe that was Gabriel expressing concern, in his own unique way. Trying to pull Sam out of his funk. 

And for the first time since everything happened, Sam lets himself think about what the implications of being king of hell might actually be without spiralling into panic. “Hey, uh… so I could change the way demons do deals, couldn’t I?” He starts slowly. His fingers tap against the table as he starts considering it, his mind starting to light up with possibilities. “I could make sure they’re only taking people who deserve it. Make sure nobody’s taking advantage of kids or desperate people.”

“Now you’re getting it!” Gabriel gives him a wink, tipping his chair back onto two legs. “Didn’t I tell you you’re not just a pretty face? Put that brain to work, lawyer boy.” He chuckles to himself. “Oh, they didn’t know what they were doing when they put you on the throne. You’ll have them all so tied up with supernatural bureaucracy they can’t move an inch.”

“Just as well I’ve got the power to do it myself now, the other hunters won’t come near me,” Sam grumbles, levitating the whisky and a pair of glasses towards them. 

“Yeah, well, they don’t know what they’re missing out on. You’ve got the brains and the looks, you’ll have them jumping to your every command the second you’re down there. Who wouldn’t want you?”

  
  
“You sound like you’re making me a dating profile, not encouraging them to work with me,” Sam grins into his glass.

“Maybe I am! You’re a fucking  _ catch _ , Sammy. Tall, dark and powerful? So my type. And between you and me? Those antlers?” Gabriel lets his eyes trail salaciously over him and makes a ridiculous groaning noise. “ _ So _ sexy.”

Sam reaches down and shoves him out of his chair, leaving him to roll around on the floor in his own laughter.

“I think you need a crown more than I do. At least I’ve got the antlers.”

Gabriel rolls over and sits up with a grin. “Au contraire!” His eyes flash blue, and to Sam’s astonishment, a golden ring shimmers into life above his head. It ripples, crenellations appearing and vanishing again in an instant, a crown of light almost too bright to look at.

“Woah,” Sam breathes, “Beautiful…”

  
  
A second later he realises what he’s said and blushes. Gabriel’s grinning at him, caramel eyes shining golden under the light of his own halo, but something in his face is the most human that Sam's ever seen him. “Well, looks like relations between heaven and hell are about to improve, if you catch my drift.” He holds out a hand, wiggling his fingers enticingly. “Wadda you say, Sammy?”

Like that was an offer Sam could ever refuse?

  
  



End file.
